Tasmania's most eccentric attractions — from a Swiss village in the Tamar Valley to a giant platypus and convict-built bridge — prove that odd is simply another word for extraordinary.
Australia: Tasmania – Tasmanian Aboretum
🗺️ The Road South to Sheffield
We turned south from Devonport, heading roughly sixty kilometres down the island towards the small town of Sheffield, which was to be our base for the night. Sheffield, Tasmania, is not to be confused with Sheffield, England, which is considerably larger, considerably greyer, and considerably better known for steel production and the Arctic Monkeys. The Tasmanian version is a quiet, agreeable little place that has reinvented itself as an outdoor gallery town, its buildings covered in large painted murals depicting scenes from local and colonial history. The murals have become something of a tourist attraction in their own right, drawing visitors who might not otherwise have had strong feelings about Sheffield one way or the other. But I am getting ahead of myself, and we had not yet arrived.
We were barely out of Devonport when I had what I chose to describe as an inspired idea. Karen chose a slightly different word, but let that pass.
A few evenings before, at one of those informal gatherings that tend to happen when you are travelling slowly through a place and people discover you are interested in wildlife, we had fallen into conversation with a conservationist. I cannot now recall her name, which is embarrassing, nor her exact institutional credentials, which is more embarrassing still. What I can tell you with complete confidence is that she was extremely enthusiastic — the kind of person who leans forward when she talks and deploys her hands to considerable effect — and that her enthusiasm on this particular evening was aimed entirely at the Tasmanian Arboretum.
The Tasmanian Arboretum sits near the small settlement of Eugenana, roughly twelve kilometres south of Devonport in the Forth River valley. It was established in the 1980s on what had been farmland, and has been developed over the intervening decades into a significant collection of both native Tasmanian species and exotic trees from around the world. It covers a substantial area of managed woodland, open grassland, and waterways, and is, by most accounts, a genuinely lovely place to spend a quiet afternoon if trees are your thing.
The conservationist, however, was not talking to us about trees. She was talking about platypus. She told us, with the kind of calm but absolute conviction that makes you pay attention, that the arboretum was one of the better spots in the whole of northern Tasmania for seeing them reliably. Not just a reasonable chance. A proper, dependable, turn-up-and-you-will-very-probably-see-one kind of chance. I filed this away. The filing system in my head is, I will admit, largely organised chaos, but this particular piece of information had apparently been stored in a clearly labelled folder marked “do not lose this.”
📹 The Harvey Intelligence Report
The conservationist’s enthusiasm alone might not have been enough to divert us from the direct route south. What settled the matter was a video.
Our friends the Harveys — Ian and Gael — are the kind of people who tend to go to places a week or two before you do and then report back with detailed, enthusiastic, and occasionally alarming information. They had visited the arboretum recently and Ian, who carries his camera with the dedication of a man who has thought carefully about what matters in life, had captured something rather special.
The footage showed Gael standing on a set of flat concrete stepping stones crossing a small river within the arboretum grounds. These stepping stones are a well-known feature of the site, positioned across a shallow, clear-watered section of the watercourse where platypus are regularly seen. Gael is a composed and sensible woman under normal circumstances. In this particular video, she was standing very still indeed, in the posture of someone who had just become aware that something significant was occurring immediately beneath them. And what was occurring immediately beneath her was a platypus, moving through the water between the stepping stones at considerable pace, apparently completely unbothered by the large human positioned above it, shooting between Gael’s legs like a small, furry, purposeful torpedo that had somewhere important to be and was not going to let a tourist stop it.
Gael’s legs, in the video, were shaking. Whether this was excitement or alarm or some rapidly assembled combination of both was impossible to determine from the footage, and we did not feel it was the right moment to ask. Either way, it was extremely persuasive viewing.
🌥️ The Crepuscular Problem
Karen was sceptical, and she had perfectly sound reasons to be.
The central difficulty was the time of day. It was mid-afternoon and still perfectly bright — the sun was making no effort to conceal itself or oblige us in any way. The platypus, as Karen correctly and rather pointedly observed, is famously crepuscular. This is one of those words I genuinely enjoy and rarely have occasion to deploy. It means, essentially, that the animal is most active during the low, ambiguous hours around dusk and dawn — when the light cannot quite commit to being day or night and the world is at its most tentative. During the unambiguous brightness of a clear afternoon, your platypus is, by strong and long-established preference, tucked away somewhere quiet, dim, and private, resting and declining to be looked at.
This is, I have always felt, an entirely reasonable life philosophy, and one I have some personal sympathy with. But it was not convenient for us.
The platypus — Ornithorhynchus anatinus, to give it its full and slightly tongue-tying scientific name — is a genuinely extraordinary animal, and not just because of the crepuscular habits. It is one of only five surviving species of monotreme, the most ancient lineage of mammals, a group that diverged from the ancestors of all other mammals somewhere around 166 million years ago, give or take, back when dinosaurs were still very much the dominant concern. The monotremes are the only mammals that lay eggs, and the platypus takes this already remarkable fact and adds to it: a bill that works as an electroreceptor, detecting the faint electrical fields generated by the muscle movements of prey animals in the water; venomous spurs on the hind legs of the males, containing a cocktail of compounds capable of causing severe pain in humans and death in smaller animals; and a metabolism so unusual that the animal does not have a stomach in the conventional sense, its oesophagus connecting directly to the intestine.
When preserved platypus specimens first arrived in Britain from the new Australian colonies, the scientists who examined them were so convinced they were looking at an elaborate taxidermist’s hoax — a duck bill stitched onto a beaver-like body — that they reportedly searched the skin carefully for the seams. They did not find any, because there were none. The platypus is entirely genuine, which, when you think about it, is even more astonishing than if it had been a hoax.
I countered Karen’s scepticism with the evidence I had on my phone: a reasonably large collection of photographs posted online by various arboretum visitors over the years, the majority of which appeared to have been taken in conditions of perfectly adequate daylight, with what looked like content and visible platypus in them. Karen examined this evidence in the manner of someone encountering information that contradicts what they already believe, which is to say carefully and with some reservations, but she agreed we could stop and try. At ten Australian dollars for entry, the financial risk seemed manageable.
🌳 The Arboretum Gates
We paid at the gate, collected a modest site map, and made our way on foot towards the lake and the network of paths and watercourses that run through the lower section of the arboretum.
The grounds themselves were pleasant in that quietly well-maintained way that suggests people who genuinely care about the place without making too much of a song and dance about it. Mature trees lined the paths — a mixture of native eucalypts and Tasmanian species alongside exotics from the northern hemisphere that seemed to be doing rather well for themselves at this latitude. The air smelled of damp bark and grass. There were information boards, positioned at tasteful intervals, describing the collection with the restrained enthusiasm characteristic of people who love something but have learned not to inflict too much of it on strangers.
We were not reading the information boards. We were looking at the water.
👣 The Stepping Stones
Karen spotted the stepping stones almost immediately, which I found both impressive and slightly annoying because I had been looking for them myself. They were exactly as they had appeared in Ian’s video: flat concrete slabs arranged in a line across a shallow, clear section of the watercourse, the same configuration, the same proportions, unmistakable to anyone who had watched the footage more than once, which we both had.
We were, we agreed, in the right place. This was encouraging.
And then we noticed the tour group.
There were six or eight of them gathered at the far edge of the lake, at the point where it narrowed towards the spillway and the reed beds. Every single one of them was carrying a camera, and not the sort of camera you buy because it comes free with a mobile phone contract. These were substantial cameras fitted with telephoto lenses of the kind more usually associated with wildlife photography conducted at significantly greater range — the sort of equipment that suggests both serious intent and a willingness to spend money in pursuit of that intent. Every lens was aimed in the same direction. Nobody was talking. Nobody was moving. They had the collective, motionless intensity of people who have located what they came to find and are determined not to do anything that might cause it to leave.
We exchanged a look. In wildlife-watching terms, this was approximately the equivalent of arriving at a restaurant to find a queue out of the door and interpreting it as a good sign. We joined them, quietly, at a respectful distance.
🦆 The Appearance
A few moments later, the platypus appeared.
It arrived at the surface of the lake without announcement or drama, which is very much the platypus way. It moved along through the water with a rolling, slightly improbable swimming action — an undulating, forward-pushing motion that manages to look both efficient and faintly ridiculous at the same time, which is something of a recurring theme with this animal. Part duck in the bill department, part beaver in the tail arrangement, part something else entirely in the general structural planning. Evolution, when it was putting the platypus together, was clearly working to a brief that nobody else had been given.
The bill swept steadily from side to side beneath the surface as it moved. When a platypus forages underwater, it closes its eyes, ears, and nostrils entirely and navigates purely through electroreception — those electroreceptors in the bill picking up the tiny electrical signals produced by the involuntary muscle contractions of shrimps, insect larvae, worms, and other small creatures in the substrate. It is, in a quiet way, one of the more sophisticated sensory systems in the animal kingdom, and it operates in complete darkness and silence. The platypus does not need to see its food. It feels it.
It dived and surfaced. Dived and surfaced again. It was foraging as it went, making the short, repeated dives characteristic of active feeding, storing whatever it was finding in its cheek pouches to be dealt with at the surface. A feeding platypus can make several hundred of these dives in a single outing, which strikes me as exhausting, but presumably it doesn’t find it so. After several minutes of this it made its way towards a thick clump of aquatic vegetation growing beside a small concrete spillway at one end of the lake, and disappeared into the reeds.
I crossed the river to the far bank, where the tour group had positioned themselves, because from there the angle through the vegetation was considerably better.
🪵 The Spillway
Through a gap in the reeds, the platypus was visible on the far side, resting in the shallow water just beyond the spillway structure. It was not in a hurry. It was not especially concerned about its audience. It existed with the particular self-possession of a small animal that has concluded, correctly, that nothing in this immediate environment poses it any serious threat, and has arranged its afternoon accordingly.
And then, with the measured, deliberate movements of an animal that was not going to be rushed by anybody, it climbed out of the water.
It settled itself on the flat concrete surface of the spillway — dry, level, in the open, with the afternoon light falling cleanly on it — and it stayed there. For the next twenty minutes it did not move far. It groomed.
Platypus grooming is not a casual matter, and it is not quick, and it is not modest. The fur of the platypus is extraordinarily dense — comparable in density to that of a sea otter, which is to say about as waterproof as any natural mammal fur gets. This density is not accidental and it is not self-maintaining. The animal has a pair of glands near the base of the tail that produce an oil, and the grooming process involves working this oil methodically through the entire fur coat, which is what makes the difference between a platypus that can spend hours in cold Tasmanian water and emerge apparently unaffected, and one that cannot.
The process, as we watched it, involved a remarkable degree of flexibility and a considerable expenditure of effort. The platypus groomed its face using its forefeet, working around the bill with what appeared to be careful attention. It groomed its flanks. It used its hind feet — large, webbed, clawed affairs that look faintly impractical until you see them deployed — to work through the fur on its belly and chest with the focused, systematic thoroughness of someone tackling a task they have done many times and intend to do properly. It folded itself into positions that suggested a structural flexibility not obviously implied by its shape when viewed from the outside. At no point did it appear to be in any hurry. At no point did it appear to have noticed or care that eight tourists with telephoto lenses and two slightly damp English visitors were watching from approximately six metres away.
It was, quite simply, one of the more extraordinary things I have watched. A creature that looks, at first glance, like the result of a bet placed in a biology department after hours, conducting its afternoon ablutions with complete, unruffled, self-contained dignity on a concrete slab in front of a small and very attentive audience. The absurdity of its appearance and the total composure of its behaviour created a combination I found genuinely moving, and I am not usually a man who uses that word about animals on concrete spillways.
🌧️ The Return
Eventually, it was done. It paused briefly — or appeared to; I am aware that reading deliberation into a platypus is going further than the evidence strictly supports — and then slid back into the water without any particular ceremony or acknowledgement of its audience. One moment it was on the spillway. The next it was gone, back into the shallow water, back into the reeds, back to its afternoon.
The tour group dispersed. They had, it was clear, received what they had come for, and they seemed quietly satisfied in the way of people who have had a genuinely good experience and are still processing it. We did not leave immediately. You do not leave a platypus lightly. We stayed another ten minutes at the water’s edge, watching it continue to move through the reeds, surfacing occasionally with the rolling, unhurried motion that was already becoming familiar. We stayed until it had retreated somewhere out of sight and it became clear that it was not coming back to perform another encore.
Only then did we concede that it was time to go.
And then the rain arrived.
It came not gradually, not considerately, not in the form of a preliminary drizzle designed to give sensible people time to find shelter. It came all at once, fully committed, with no build-up and no apology, in the manner of a landlord arriving at a party he has decided has gone on long enough and is here to end it. We walked quickly towards the car. Then we walked more quickly still. We arrived back at it wet, but not entirely wet, which in the circumstances felt like a fair result.
💭 Reflections
I had not expected a great deal from the arboretum stop, if I am being honest. I had hoped, which is a different thing. You always hope. But I had also quietly prepared myself for the likelihood that we would stand at a lake for forty minutes in the gathering afternoon, see some reeds, and drive on having spent ten dollars on the lesson that platypus are, in fact, crepuscular.
That is not what happened.
What happened instead was twenty minutes of a wild animal grooming itself on a concrete ledge in broad daylight in front of us, apparently unbothered by our presence, as if this were the most ordinary thing in the world. Which, for the platypus, I suppose it was. For us it was something else entirely.
The thing that stays with me is not the first sighting, dramatic as that was. It is the grooming. The combination of an animal that looks fundamentally, gloriously improbable and the complete, unhurried dignity it brought to a Tuesday afternoon on a spillway in northern Tasmania. I found it oddly affecting in a way I was not entirely prepared for and cannot fully explain.
Karen, who had been technically correct about the crepuscular habits and had the good grace not to mention it, was quietly delighted. The platypus had declined to follow the rules, which was good of it.
We drove on to Sheffield in the rain, damp, slightly astonished, and very glad we had stopped.
Planning your visit to the Tasmanian Aboretum
📍 Location
The Tasmanian Arboretum is situated at 46 Old Tramway Road, Eugenana, Tasmania 7310. It lies just 12 kilometres south of Devonport and is approximately one hour’s drive from Launceston. The park is easily accessible and offers ample parking on site, along with toilets equipped with disabled access.
🌳 What to See and Do
The Arboretum’s collections are arranged biogeographically, allowing visitors to stroll through themed zones representing different regions of the temperate world. Signage throughout the park describes the plants and their origins, and a Visitor Guide is available from the kiosk with suggested walking routes.
Highlights include the Limestone Heritage Walk, a self-guided trail that connects the site’s unique geology with over a century of human activity, linking colonial history with the natural landscape. The Nature Walk winds through a remnant of local forest, with guide sheets available at each end of the trail.
Wildlife enthusiasts will find much to delight them. Founders’ Lake is regarded by the Australian Platypus Monitoring Network as the most productive single site in Australia for viewing platypus in the wild, with sightings possible at any time of day with a little patience. Around 81 species of birds have been recorded on site, including the swift parrot and the grey goshawk. Marsupials such as Bennett’s wallabies, pademelons, bettongs, and possums are also present, along with echidnas. Visitors should remain alert to the occasional presence of tiger snakes.
A platypus observatory and bird hide are located on the shores of Founders’ Lake, offering excellent vantage points for wildlife observation. Picnic shelters with coin-operated electric barbecues are available throughout the grounds.
The Tree Park Kiosk serves tea, coffee, hot chocolate, light refreshments, and home-made ice cream during the warmer months, from early September through to the beginning of June, operating 11:00 am to 4:00 pm most days.
🕘 Opening Times
The gates are open every day of the year, including public holidays.
- During daylight saving time: 9:00 am to 8:00 pm
- Outside daylight saving time: 9:00 am to 5:00 pm
🎟️ Entry Fees
Admission is $10 per adult. Entry is free for current members. The Arboretum welcomes donations, which can also be made via their secure online portal. As a Deductible Gift Recipient, donations are tax-deductible.
🌐 Website
📞 Contact
Phone: (03) 6427 2690 Email: tasarb@tasmanianarboretum.org.au
Volunteers on duty at the kiosk are happy to answer enquiries during opening hours. Outside of staffed hours, visitor guide pamphlets are available on site.
The best time to visit Tasmania
🌸 Spring in Tasmania (September–November)
Spring is one of the most rewarding times to visit Tasmania. The island shakes off its winter chill and bursts into colour, with wildflowers carpeting the highlands and orchards in the Huon Valley blooming beautifully. Temperatures creep up from around 10°C in September to a pleasant 18°C by November, though you should expect the odd shower — Tasmania’s weather is famously changeable.
This is an excellent season for walking. The iconic Overland Track begins opening up to hikers in late October, and Cradle Mountain is often dusted with the last of the season’s snow early in the period, making for dramatic scenery without full winter conditions. Wildlife is particularly active in spring — look out for Tasmanian devils, echidnas, and nesting sea birds.
Crowds are still modest, accommodation prices are reasonable, and the landscape is at its most vivid. Spring is ideal for those who want the full natural experience without the summer rush.
What to pack for spring: Light to mid-weight layers, a waterproof jacket, walking boots, sunscreen, and a warm hat for highland walks. A light fleece is essential as evenings remain cool.
☀️ Summer in Tasmania (December–February)
Summer is peak season and for good reason. Long daylight hours — up to 16 hours in December — mean you can pack a tremendous amount into each day. Temperatures in Hobart typically sit between 17°C and 24°C, though the northwest can push into the high 20s. The northwest and northeast coasts are particularly sunny and sheltered.
This is the season for beach walks along Wineglass Bay, boat trips in the Freycinet Peninsula, and exploring the Tasman Peninsula. The Sydney to Hobart Yacht Race brings a festive atmosphere to Hobart in late December, and the Taste of Tasmania food festival draws foodies from around the world.
The downside? It is the busiest and most expensive time to visit. Accommodation books out months in advance, particularly in popular spots like Freycinet and Hobart’s waterfront. Book early if you plan to travel in January.
What to pack for summer: Light clothing, swimwear, a sun hat, high-SPF sunscreen, sunglasses, and a light windproof layer for coastal walks. An insulating layer is still wise for evenings in the highlands.
🍂 Autumn in Tasmania (March–May)
Many seasoned travellers consider autumn to be Tasmania’s finest season. The summer crowds have departed, the light turns golden and warm, and the deciduous trees — particularly those in the Huon Valley, the Derwent Valley, and around Cradle Mountain — transform into extraordinary shades of amber, rust, and burgundy.
Temperatures are still comfortable in March and April, hovering around 16–20°C, before dropping noticeably in May. The sea remains warm enough for swimming into April. MONA FOMA and other cultural festivals often run in this period, and the annual Autumn Festival in the Huon Valley is a wonderful celebration of the harvest.
Walking conditions are superb: the trails are quieter, the air is crisp, and the colours along routes such as the Walls of Jerusalem are simply stunning. Accommodation is easier to secure and often cheaper than summer.
What to pack for autumn: Mid-weight layers, a waterproof jacket, a warm fleece, walking boots, and a scarf for cooler evenings. Don’t leave behind the sunscreen — the autumn sun can still catch you out.
❄️ Winter in Tasmania (June–August)
Winter is Tasmania’s quietest season, and it rewards those willing to brave the cold with a rawer, more dramatic version of the island. Snow falls across the Central Highlands and alpine areas, and Cradle Mountain in particular looks spectacular under a white blanket. Temperatures in Hobart can drop to around 3–5°C at night, though daytime highs of 11–13°C are common in the south.
This is the best time to experience the aurora australis — the Southern Lights. On clear nights, particularly away from city light pollution near the south coast or at Cockle Creek, the sky can put on a remarkable display. The Dark Mofo festival in June, one of Australia’s most distinctive cultural events, takes place in Hobart and draws visitors specifically in winter.
Ski touring and snowshoeing are possible on the Central Plateau. Many tourist operators run year-round, though some smaller accommodation options and parks infrastructure scale back. Prices are at their lowest and crowds are minimal.
What to pack for winter: Thermal base layers, a heavy-duty waterproof and windproof outer jacket, warm trousers, insulated gloves, a beanie, and waterproof walking boots with good ankle support. Layers are key — interiors are well-heated but outdoors the wind chill can be significant.
🗓️ Overall Best Time to Visit
If you can only visit Tasmania once, aim for late autumn — specifically late March through to mid-May. You’ll enjoy the last of the warm settled weather, the spectacular foliage that rivals anything in New England or Japan, quieter roads and trails, and more affordable accommodation than the peak summer months. Spring runs a very close second, offering lively wildlife, blooming landscapes, and ideal walking conditions as the Overland Track and alpine areas come back to life. Summer is superb if you’re planning beach and coastal activities or are specifically after the festive atmosphere of Hobart in late December, but book well in advance. Winter is for the intrepid — with the right gear and a taste for dramatic, moody landscapes, it can be the most memorable season of all.
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